


My Pseudonym Looks Good in Blue

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Joel Morricone, M/M, McHanzo Week, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 09:56:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: McHanzo Week Day 3 Prompt: *Undercover* // DowntimeMcCree has secrets on top of his secrets. Hanzo finds out a big one.





	My Pseudonym Looks Good in Blue

Hanzo finds the invite mixed in with the other incoming mail.

All the agents receive mail to the same Post Office box down in Gibraltar. Every few days one of them goes down to collect it. Once back in the base it all gets unceremoniously dumped on the table just inside the main common room so people can come by and sort through it at their leisure, but usually people are waiting on packages or important correspondence so the pile clears out quickly. Usually the only mail left at the end of a mail run are items for people on mission.

The envelope catches Hanzo’s attention when he drops by the mail counter the day after a mission. White and crisp and perfectly square, unlike the rest of the normal envelopes and manila sleeves laying around the table. The edges are a little frayed on two sides; it looks like it was tied with the large bundle of envelopes next to it but somehow fell loose. Hanzo picks it up and turns it over, surprised to find the front decorated with embossed blue and silver shooting stars. It appears to be from some sort of awards ceremony. But the name on the front is not one he recognizes. Using his fingers he pries it open without removing the mail; inside is an invitation, as expected, to some event in New York City. And a notice of nomination.

He checks the bundle and finds that the topmost letter is to McCree. How odd.

Turning with it in hand, he addresses the other agents milling about in the kitchen. “What should we do with mail that should not have come here?”

“Like what?” Lena asks from behind the refrigerator door.

“There is a letter here addressed to a Joel Morrico--”

The envelope is promptly ripped from Hanzo’s hands so fast that if it had been open it surely would have left paper cuts. Hanzo jerks his head up to find McCree before him; how did he get there from the coffee pot so fast?

McCree barely glances at the front of the envelope before he starts babbling. “I’ll take care of it. Say, did you get that package you were waitin’ for? I thought I saw it tucked under the table,” he says, gesturing with his empty mug back toward the mail table. Hanzo turns his head to look but out of his peripheral he sees McCree stuff the envelope into his shirt pocket. Then easy as you please he skirts around Hanzo and heads for the door. “Don’t forget we got target practice later, Lena. I’ll meet you after lunch.”

Finally finding the cream she had been looking for, Lena emerges from the refrigerator and does a double-take of the coffee pot still sitting on the counter. “Did he forget to fill his mug?” 

Curious.

 

\---

 

McCree tries his best to dodge Hanzo after his appointment with Lena, but Hanzo is a trained ninja and assassin; avoiding him is a lot harder than that. So Hanzo waits until McCree is tapping in the access code for the ammunitions storeroom to pounce.

“Who is Joel Morricone?”

He visibly jumps, which is all manner of satisfying for Hanzo. McCree turns and finds Hanzo far closer than he expected, too close for a smart remark and disappearing the room or back down the hall for escape. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, sug.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo pulls out a bundle of envelopes from behind his back all tied together with a rubber band. “Then it would be a mystery why he has so much correspondence mixed in with yours.”

Sharp eyes flit from Hanzo’s gaze to the thick packet of letters and back again. “Ain’t it illegal to tamper with someone’s mail?”

“I am not tampering. I am delivering.” He drops the pack in McCree’s hand but makes no move to leave. “Who is Joel Morricone?”

“Shh! Just--” McCree puts up a hand to indicate silence. “Keep your voice down, please?” He sighs and keys in the code again. When the door slides open he motions for Hanzo go in.

“You are not going to lock me inside and dispose of my body, are you?” Hanzo asks, stepping into the ammunitions room. 

“Ha ha, very funny,” McCree replies. The door shuts behind them with a solid thump and the overhead lights flick on automatically. He drops the mail on one of the shelves. “Athena? Disable surveillance, fifteen minutes.”

From the speakers above Athena’s melodic yet mechanical voice chastises,  _ “It is not advised to disable the surveillance footage of any ammunitions storage rooms. To do so would require authorization from Commander--” _

“System override, access code Juliet-Oscar-Kilo-Echo-Romeo.”

There is a pause before Athena acknowledges,  _ “Surveillance disabled, fifteen minutes Agent McCree.” _

He turns and looks at Hanzo, the archer having taken to leaning his back against one of the shelving units and watching McCree expectantly with his arms crossed. “Alright,” McCree says, bracing his hands on his hips. “Alright, fine. You want to know? Fine.” He takes a breath and drops his head. “It’s me.”

“I gathered as much,” Hanzo says, unimpressed. McCree knows that Hanzo is no stranger to having multiple identities. He has a dozen dormant and waiting just in case he ever needs them, all with bank accounts and supplies stashed around the world. None of them have had their mail sent to the Watchpoint. “But who is he? You have never acted like this for any of your other aliases. If you wanted him kept secret you should have sent your mail elsewhere.”

“It is sent elsewhere! The postal guys usually shove them all in a box so they’re not--okay, look,” McCree huffs, irritated. “He ain’t so much a safety net as a...a pseudonym.”

“What is the difference?” Hanzo asks.

“He ain’t for emergencies, he’s--he’s--like, he’s an actual personality I made up for--for--” McCree waves his metal arm like that finishes the sentence, even though it clearly does not. “I actually do things as him, and I can’t--no one can know, alright? No one can know about this, you can’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t,” Hanzo says, a little alarmed by this panicky behavior. “But you are not making sense. What do you do as Morricone that you cannot do as yourself? What would you even have time to do?” A dozen or more scenarios jump to the forefront; is McCree doing some sort of illegal activity on the side? Still taking hits and jobs under Overwatch’s very nose? Does he have a family he is keeping secret? Or a lover? The last makes Hanzo’s stomach turn over.

McCree’s face flushes with embarrassment and his mouth opens, then closes with a click when nothing comes out. A rare day to see Jesse Mccree speechless. He finally forces out, “You really don’t know?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “Should I?”

Now Hanzo is not sure if McCree is blushing because Hanzo knows about Joel Morricone, or if it is because he does  _ not  _ know about Joel Morricone. “He’s a writer,” is what McCree says. Then, specifies, “I mean, more like a journalist, I guess? Online. Uh, not, not like a fiction writer but more…well, some call him a blogger but he puts a lot more thought and research into his work than that.”

“You’re a blogger?”

“Journalist,” McCree reiterates, irritation creeping back into his voice. “Anyway. He writes--I write. Got a website and everything.”

Hanzo almost barks a laugh. Jesse McCree, a writer? The thought seems so absurd. Something in the hard set of McCree’s gaze keeps Hanzo quiet. This, whatever this is, holds importance. “I had no idea,” he says, because that at least is the truth.

“I know it’s...it’s a risk, and all. But I’m real careful to keep the two lives separate. Usually all the mail goes through two proxy locations before it gets here, and it’s all supposed to be in a box or a bag. They must be trainin’ someone new down at the Post Office. I’ll sort it out. But, seriously, Hanzo, this stays between us, a’ight?”

“Between us,” Hanzo promises.

He leaves McCree with his mail, then. Target practice had sounded good earlier, but he does not think he will be able to concentrate now. Instead he heads back to his room and thinks he might browse on his computer a while.

 

\---

 

The last time Hanzo spent an entire afternoon and evening researching someone, it was an assassination target that took twelve days to finally pin down. Tedious work that had to be done. Reading the backlog of Joel Morricone’s work is nothing like that.

His first search for the name brings up pages of websites, topmost being the site McCree mentioned. Hanzo had been expecting something more in line with McCree’s personal style--something country and western and down-home American. The sleek, professional website he clicks on is about as far from that idea as it could be. There are no personal photos and the About the Author page has the sort of vague details that would be hard to track. It claims Morricone lives somewhere on the mid-Atlantic, has degrees in writing and journalism, and currently travels abroad.

The articles are fascinating.

Some of them are opinion pieces about current events, the political climate in certain countries, hot button topics or causes that need to be addressed. An in-depth look into gun control laws in different countries, a protest that happened recently, coverage of the last turbulent election in Europe. Others are on less heavy subjects, such as the state of the horror movie genre today, or some of the best places he has eaten on his travels. One article talks at length about a cup of coffee he had in Lisbon, claiming it was the first decent brew he had in weeks and how it changed his entire perspective on life in general.

Lisbon. A two week mission where they were pinned down by Talon with little more than instant coffee and creamer packets for beverages. McCree had suffered a broken nose and burns on his leg, but after it was all over he still managed to hobble his way to the cafe a few streets over. Hanzo remembers because he was there, helped the man order, and they had sat at a tiny table on the terrace and watched the people on the sidewalk stroll by. Morricone even mentions that his companion that day ordered an iced coffee that smelled of sweet spices and brought a gentle smile to his features. The description makes Hanzo blush despite the quiet security of his rooms.

He finds that he pops up in other articles. Some of the others do, too, but none with as much frequency as Hanzo himself. Always as Morricone’s companion, and he gives no specific features that could lead to identification and mentions nothing that was ever specifically said. Hanzo almost feels relief that their actual conversations are never shared, though he is not sure why.

If Hanzo does not stop himself he will spend the whole night reading through the archive of the blog, so he opens a new tab and searches for the name of the awards ceremony from the invite. Glad that his memory serves him correct, he looks until he finds what Morricone is nominated for. It ends up being for a lesser known category, and Hanzo recognizes none of the others nominated--to be fair, he recognizes hardly any of the nominees for any of the categories. But there he is, with the thumbnail for his website next to the piece in question:  _ The Age of Heroes: The Rise, Fall, and Resurrection of Overwatch - A Retrospective. _

Hanzo clicks on the link, and misses dinner.

 

\---

 

With new information comes new perspective.

When he first met McCree, Hanzo thought a lot of rather dismissive thoughts about the man. Loud, brash, arrogant--and no, Hanzo does not need to have the hypocrisy of that one pointed out to him--but mostly he thought of McCree as simple. Maybe it was the heavy accent, or the easy-going nature, or just because he had a tendency to say silly things that Hanzo did not always understand. Probably all of that and just Hanzo’s own stubborn insistence that his time with Overwatch was not going to work. Whatever the reasons, Hanzo knows they were wrong and foolish. Never judge a book by its cover. McCree would probably laugh at that.

Now, Hanzo knows just how wrong he was and he cannot look at McCree the same way no matter how hard he tries. And now that he is actually looking and listening instead of judging, he can pick up on the parts of Morricone that shine through. McCree is certainly an expert storyteller when he wants to be. Even in his daily talk, there is a certain eloquence to his words. A cadence, a rhythm that you cannot help but follow. His descriptions paint pictures in Hanzo’s mind. He can nearly see the Santa Fe sunset when McCree describes it, almost taste the sweetness of honeysuckle when McCree recalls it from his childhood.

Hanzo wants to hear more.

He finds himself making excuses to spend time in McCree’s company. Dragging out their target practices. Lingering in the mornings when he brews his tea. Joining McCree to watch some dumb film that someone recommended he watch and pretending his heart does not leap in his chest when his phone notifies him of a new post the next day. Of course he signed up for the mailing list so he would not miss a single word. He finds himself grinning with giddy joy when Morricone mentions his companion complaining at length about the crudely done CGI in the movie, and uses it to segue right into the merits of practical effects.

McCree invites him to his room one afternoon following one of their practices. It seems odd, out of the blue even. As open as McCree is in conversation, he is notoriously private about his personal space. Overwatch being as it is and everyone having their own issues with privacy, no one ever really judges him for it, but it means very few people have actually been in the officer’s room that McCree was given after the recall. Hanzo goes without question.

It is messy, as Hanzo expected, but not slovenly. Just a general disarray with laundry still left in its basket and gun cleaning supplies left out on the table. The books are a surprise even though maybe they should not be. On the shelf over the desk, then stacked on either side of the computer monitor, on a shelf over the bed, lined up on the window sill, some on the dresser, a box on the floor. Has McCree collected all these since he moved in, or did he bring these with him?

“Have a seat,” McCree says after he shuts the door. Then he huffs and rushes forward to take the box of what appear to be journals out of the spare chair so there will be room. “Sorry, ah, here you go.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo says, taking the proffered seat. He is still too busy looking around the space at all the little objects collected here and there that mark the miles McCree has traveled. “You have quite the collection of books.”

“Ah, yeah, I’ve got more in storage,” he admits, laughing to himself and shoving the box under his bed. “Got to make sure to do my research, after all.”

He opens his mouth to say more but Hanzo finds himself interrupting. “What are you working on?”

McCree stalls, trying to process the question, then his mind kicks into gear. “Oh! Uh, well, I, uh. There’s this hard light article I’m working on.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asks as McCree takes a seat in his desk chair. “What about?”

“Uh. Well, there’s some research going into adapting hard light for medical purposes, using the technology to try and recreate missing limbs or organs. Cutting edge technology that wasn’t originally intended for biomechanical needs but it might be possible.” He squints doubtfully at Hanzo. “Are you really interested in this?”

“You make it interesting,” Hanzo says, and nearly bites his own tongue out when it slips out. “What--what I mean is, I--”

“You looked me up, didn’t you?”

McCree does not sound happy about this turn of events. Hanzo rushes to fix it. “I did. I was curious, what you wrote about. I had never heard of Joel Morricone before. He is--you are a very good writer.”

And that earns him a squirm not unlike a child suddenly and unexpectedly in the spotlight. “Really?” he asks, uncertain.

“Yes!” Hanzo fights to keep from talking with his hands, as he has a tendency to do on subjects that excite him. “I admit it was not what I expected, but you have quite a way with words, McCree.”

Now McCree is full-on embarrassed and he tugs his hat down enough to cover his eyes. “Aw, shucks, darlin’,” he laughs. He misses the way Hanzo flushes at the term of endearment. “I ain’t ever had anyone I know read my writing. You’re goin’ to make me blush.”

“It is true. I can see why you were nominated for that award.”

“Ah, right. About that.” He sits up and folds his hands in front of him between his knees, looking at Hanzo seriously. “That’s kind of why I asked you here. I got nominated for this thing and the ceremony is coming up this weekend.”

Hanzo nods, already aware of it. It was an event he made sure to keep track of as it approached, and he noticed the block of time where McCree’s name disappeared from the training and mission schedule. Maybe McCree needs someone to fill in for a mission he had to drop out of. Or look after the little pot of succulents on the window sill.

“I know it’s short notice,” McCree says, hesitant. “But I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d like to be my plus one?”

“Pardon?” Hanzo asks, not sure he understood correctly.

“It’s just, ah, you know. I thought, what with the weekend and all, it wouldn’t be a long trip, and it might be fun? You’re the only person that really knows, and I could go it solo but thought you might get a kick out of it. I understand if it ain’t really your--”

“Yes,” Hanzo says, cutting off the rambling. McCree stares at him, surprised. “Yes, I will go with you.”

McCree breaks out into a wide grin. “A’ight, sounds good! Thank you. Ah,” he pauses and adds, “We’ll both have to go in disguise, though. Can’t have it come back to Jesse McCree and Shimada Hanzo.”

“I have some experience with going undercover. Does Joel Morricone already have a look?”

“He does, actually.” McCree digs through his desk and pulls out a photo, handing it over. “Rarely used; Joel is a bit of a recluse, likes his anonymity. But when he does make an appearance it’s something like that.”

Hanzo stares at the photo in blatant shock. “You cannot be serious.”

 

\---

 

There is a fifty-fifty chance that this is a date.

Hanzo has not quite figured out if that percentage should be leaning one way or another, and it is driving him batty. It did not even occur to him to ask until he was back in his own rooms later that night, and he could not very well ask then. He knows that one hundred percent of him wants it to be date, and that makes it all the worse not knowing.

They flew out early enough so that they could land in New York City late afternoon on Friday, enjoy a leisurely dinner, and fall asleep in their own respective beds in their shared hotel room. Saturday was spent shopping for appropriate formal wear that fit McCree’s persona, and then concocting an image for Hanzo. It was an aspect of espionage that Hanzo never really got good at but McCree’s guidance and advice makes it almost fun. Hanzo keeps getting glimpses of the McCree he has heard stories about, a man that could infiltrate seedy bars and upper-crust elite alike, a man that can easily slip into any situation and find his footing.

After storing their purchases back at the hotel they spend the rest of day wandering and genuinely enjoying the city, something neither of them have ever really taken the chance to do given they both only came for work in one way or another. They dine at a little pizza place on the corner near their hotel and stay up way too late sharing drinks at a bar. Hanzo finds he wants McCree to make a move, but he never does. Neither does Hanzo. He calls himself a coward as he turns to face the wall that night.

 

\---

 

“McCree?” Hanzo calls from his place in front of the en suite mirror. “How much longer will you be?”

“Just finishin’ up!” comes the muffled reply.

Hanzo smiles, eyes cast down as his fingers move from memory to finish the braid in his hair. He cleaned up the sides and combed it all out before working the long locks into a simple loose braid that falls over one shoulder. A few wisps hang loose to give his features a softer look. It goes well with the teal suit and the floral skinny tie around his neck. Finding a pair of brown boots that were suitable and stylish enough to match took ages, but New York provided. He quickly folds a matching floral pocket square and slips it into place, taking in the complete image.

It is just enough him to feel comfortable, but just far enough off that it could not possibly be him. Perfect.

Then he hears the sound of hair clippers. Again. “We’re going to be late!”

The buzzing stops after a few seconds. “I’m hurryin’, I’m hurryin’! Can’t mess this up!”

“You have been in there almost an hour!”

Finally the door opens and Hanzo turns to chastise McCree for taking so long--they still have to get to the ceremony, after all, and traffic is always a problem--when his words die in his throat.

McCree is wearing chocolate brown slacks and an off-white shirt under a navy quilted silk vest. Below his Adam’s apple is tied an orange bowtie the color of autumn pumpkins. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled down for once, and discreet brown gloves hide his prosthetic. He has a suit jacket tossed over his left arm to make the bulk of it less noticeable. The signature cowboy boots are instead more typical work boots, tighter in the ankle, with scuffs on the edges that were added by the company before purchase rather than by real life damage.

The hat is missing, of course, as is McCree’s serape. Hanzo has seen him without both many times but now he seems smaller, gentler without them. That could also be because McCree has tamed his unruly hair with a simple tie at the base of his neck, and his beard has been trimmed into submission and shaped into something round, sharp, and wholly not the wild scruff Hanzo is used to seeing.

“Wow,” Hanzo says, not really aware that he spoke at all.

“Do you like?” McCree tugs a little at his vest to pull it smooth, then tuts. “Ah, almost forgot.” From the pocket he pulls a pair of thick-framed glasses, electric blue, and dons them.

Hanzo laughs. “That is quite a look for you.”

“Not for me! For--” And McCree clears his throat, pressing on it before straightening his tie. “Joel Morricone, freelance writer.”

He really cannot help it; Hanzo’s mouth falls open in shock. McCree’s accent. His accent is  _ gone.  _ “Say that again?” Hanzo says, staring at McCree’s mouth.

McCree, or should he start thinking of him as Morricone, smirks and spreads his hand down his chest, smoothing the shirt. “Joel Morricone,” he repeats, free of any accent at all. A blank slate. “Freelance writer. Do you like the tie? I found it at the most adorable boutique in Richmond. The proprietor there sews them by hand, isn’t that great?” He is having entirely too much fun with this, at Hanzo’s expense. “Now, forgive my memory, but what was your name again?”

Realizing he has a part to play, Hanzo stumbles but answers, “Kurosawa Tarou.” The name gets a pointed look from McCree, but he rolls with it. “An artist from Tokyo. But I do not think I can change my voice quite like yours.”

“Don’t worry about that, you sound just fine. Kurosawa Tarou. Tarou Tarou Tarou, okay, not too hard to remember. You look lovely as always, Tarou, blue has always been such a good color on you.” Snagging his invite from the dresser and tucking it safely into his vest, he shoots Hanzo a debonair smile. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

“Are you going to talk like that the whole night?” Hanzo asks as they file down the hallway and into the elevator.

“I try not to break the persona unless necessary,” McCree replies, pressing the button. They begin to descend toward ground level. “Helps me stay in character. I mean, obviously I can talk to you out of character, but I want to maintain the voice. It’s hard to switch back and forth too much.”

“Fascinating. You learned this in Blackwatch?”

“I was always a little bit of a mimic in Deadlock, but everyone there spoke with heavy southern or western accents. Blackwatch helped me practice other voices. I’m not that great at anything outside of American or European ones, though.” He smiles over at Hanzo. “Joel is as clear as I could make him. I don’t want anyone tracing him back to me. As far as accents go, he could be anybody.”

Hanzo quizzes him all the way through the wait for a cab and the ride to the theater hosting the event. He is not sure the novelty of this will ever wear off. It is not until they are pulling up to the curb when Hanzo finally thinks to ask. “How exactly do I know you, Joel Morricone?”

McCree pauses with his hand on the door handle and looks back at Hanzo, hesitant. Nervous. “Well,” he says, “I was hoping you would be my date.”

It brings Hanzo up short and they stare at each other a long moment. Hanzo might have stayed locked in McCree’s gaze all night had the car behind them not honked. McCree jolts and opens the door, stepping out. He offers Hanzo a hand out of the car and when Hanzo takes it the archer does not let go. Their eyes meet again as he slides his grip up to hold the crook of McCree’s arm. “You had better show me a good time, then, Joel,” he says teasingly. “I have never been to something like this before. Wow me.” 

McCree grins and leads him toward the lit up doors.

 

\---

 

Joel Morricone takes home the win for his category. His acceptance speech is short and awkward in an adorable way. He thanks his readers more than anything, but he does give special thanks to his darling partner for joining him on his many adventures. Tarou ducks his head, unable to stop grinning, and claps harder than anyone else as Joel exits the stage.

 

\---

 

“It is a shame we could not stay for the afterparty,” Hanzo says lazily as he hangs off of McCree’s arm. They forewent the cab ride in favor of walking once they lost anyone who might possibly try to follow them. “They seemed like a lively crowd.”

“They are interesting,” McCree allows. He is still using that blank accent. “A lot of drama, though. We probably would have witnessed someone accusing someone else of faking pranks for views or someone claiming someone else ripped off their recipe for blackberry sangria.”

Hanzo snickers into McCree’s shoulder. “How did you get wrapped up in all this? It does not seem like you.”

“I just wanted to write,” he says simply, then shrugs. “Spent a long time being told what to say and do, what to believe. I wanted to have a voice of my own. So I made one.”

Looking ahead, Hanzo lets that soak in. “I know what you mean.”

Hanzo stays close to McCree all the way back to the hotel, and finally lets go when they are safely back in their room. But he does not go far. “When was the last time Joel was in public?”

McCree squints, thinking back on it as he works his bowtie free. “It has to be more than a year, now. Why?”

“I was wondering if Joel always has a partner at these events or if Tarou is the first,” Hanzo says, smiling up at him.

“Tarou would be the first,” McCree says, laughing. His eyes linger on Hanzo for a long moment. “He’s pretty special. Would have to be for Joel to call him darling in front of all those people. He is a bit shy when it comes to romance.”

“No.”

McCree’s smile fades and he stares, unsure of his misstep. “No?”

“No. It is all wrong, in that voice.” Hanzo steps in far too close to be dismissed as anything other than intent. “Say it as you.”

A soft inhale, and Hanzo knows McCree gets it. He leans in so they are barely a hand’s width apart and that sweet drawl spills out. “Like this, darlin’?”

“There you are,” Hanzo murmurs, pushing up on his toes to meet McCree halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns.
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


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